A Propensity for Sleep
by JPWard
Summary: Hermann/Newt, developing relationship. A progression of Hermann and Newt's relationship presented through vignettes featuring sleep. (3/3 chapters)
1. Chapter 1

I.

The early light of the dawn does little to warm the cold, imposing structure of the Hong Kong Shatterdome. The steel and concrete exoskeleton is impervious to both Kaiju and the ordinary flow of life. Inside the Shatterdome, life is married to the carefully regulated 24 hour clock run with all the efficiency of military practice. For the rest of the world, there is variance, change to daily routines as the days shift into new seasons and roll into new years. The rising of the sun changes minutely from one day to the next. The only man to ever frown on the sun for being undependable is composed more of numbers and abstract mathematics than blood and bone.

At exactly 6:58 AM, Hermann Gottlieb walks into the k-science lab carrying a ceramic mug of hot tea in his hand. It is in the first hour of the day that most of his better work gets done. The rest of the staff, a variety of PhDs and accompanying grad students, don't arrive until eight, inundating the lab with superfluous noise and incessant chatter that only serve as an annoying distraction.

He is three steps into the lab (leaning heavily on his cane because his leg is incredibly stiff in the morning) when he observes that the lab is not, as it usually is this early, entirely deserted. Newton Geiszler, Hermann notices with a frown, is slumped over a desk, bathed in the sickening yellow glow of a specimen tank behind him. Papers are skewed at various angles beneath his akimbo arms, and a small puddle of saliva is staining a half-completed PPDC data log.

Forcing a burst of air through his nose in annoyance, Hermann places his mug of tea on his own (pristine) desk and makes a detour over to the sleeping biologist. Looking down at the unabashed disarray that is his labmate - shirt sleeves rolled up to expose gaudy tattoos, hair sticking up in tufts, glasses askew with the left lenses mashed against his eye - Hermann tsks.

He taps his cane firmly against Newt's leg.

"Dr. Geiszler." Again. "Dr. Geiszler."

Not even a twitch in response.

_"For the love of God, Newton, wake up!"_

Newt starts awake, bolting upright in his chair and blinking rapidly. He quickly peels off the PPDC log that has grafted itself to the side of his face.

"Dammit, Hermann," he groans, "What time is it?"

"It is seven o'clock in the morning, Newton," Hermann informs stiffly, "If I were you, I would take the next hour before the others arrive to make it look like you _haven't_ been sleeping in a nest of unfinished paperwork."

Hermann stalks back to his own desk as Newton stretches and yawns loudly behind him.

II.

When the Jaeger Program starts losing funding in favor of the Wall of Life, k-science loses staff members steadily and quickly until, in only three months time, the Hong Kong shatterdome's lab goes from being a fully staffed facility to a two-man team. The first few weeks like this are difficult; the lab is suddenly almost empty, and the silence is strange for both Hermann and Newt (though Hermann isn't about to complain about it). Newt, on the other hand, finds it disconcerting and becomes even more talkative to combat it: talking to himself, to Hermann, to no one in general, in order to fill up the space.

"I can't _believe_ those idiots think that a giant _wall_ is going to keep the Kaiju out! Now, I may not be an engineer, but I don't have to be one to know that that is a _stupid_ idea."

Newton slices through the tissue of a lung sample with particular gusto.

"Sure, maybe it could keep out category one and two Kaiju, _maybe_ a small category three , but anything bigger than that? If they don't walk right through it, they'll tear it down in a matter of hours - days at the most!"

A thinly sliced lung sample finds itself mounted carefully on a glass slide.

"And what happens then? After the Jaeger Program gets completely shut down, we'll be back to stopping Kaiju with airstrikes and nukes - and look how that turned out for us the first time!"

Hermann yawns as Newt slides the tissue sample beneath a microscope. Out of the corner of his eye, Newt sees Hermann's head bob forward and then jerk back up as the mathematician fights off sleep.

"Not tired are you, Hermann?" Newt goads. A glance at the wall's digital clock shows the time to be 21:37.

Hermann looks at Newt over the rims of his glasses from where he is situated before his computer's 3D projection. Since the cuts, both he and Newt have been working longer, harder hours to make up for the sudden drop in k-science productivity.

"I've been up since 5:30 this morning, Newton. I only regret that sleep has to interrupt my work." Hermann turns back to his console and continues to make minute adjustments to the model he is working on. "Even if the PPDC fails to recognize the importance of my research, I don't intend to abandon it based on the whims of a few short-sighted political figures."

"That's probably the only thing you and I agree on, Hermann," Newt responds, adjusting the focus of the microscope's lens. "And that is, what do a bunch of stuffed-up, talking heads know about _science_?" He jots of few illegible notes into a notebook (there are cartoonish doodles of Kaiju in the margins).

"Many scientists agree with the PPDC, you know," Hermann says after a pregnant pause, "They say that our work is becoming less relevant; that we are wasting time and resources in the Jaeger Program when The Wall is the obvious choice for the future." The acidity of the words are not masked by the groggy yawn that follows.

Newt doesn't know which news bulletins Hermann has been reading, but they sound like a total drag. (Weeks later, Newt will learn why Hermann's words sound so bitter. In the chaos of shared memories, Newt will hear those same words come from the mouth of Hermann's father, Lars Gottlieb, the creator of the Jaeger Program and one of the many to abandon it.)

"And those people, Hermann, are what I like to call 'wrong'. If they cared about _actual_ scientific research, they wouldn't be building a wall to keep it out!" Newt pulls the slide from the microscope, labels it, and sets it aside. "Besides, _this_ is the work that's going to save the world. After all this is over, the papers and history books are only going to have room for two names, dude: Newton Geislzer, brilliant biologist whose critical work saved billions of lives, and Hermann Gottlieb, stuffy mathematician sidekick."

One corner of his mouth pulled upward in wry amusement, Newt swivels around in his chair to smirk at his labmate. To his disappointment, he finds Hermann slumped forward, asleep in front of his computer console. His bowed head phases into the projection of the model he's been working on all night, and his glasses have slipped to the end of his nose.

Newt huffs a little at the wasted joke but decides that maybe Hermann's got the right idea. Lack of sleep in the past week has started to wear both of them down. No use trying to take notes when your brain feels like it's lying five feet away on the floor. The clock on the wall reads 21:53.

Hermann remains asleep as Newt cleans up his side of the lab, organizing his notes, storing his samples, and sterilizing his equipment. Before he leaves, Newt briefly considers just leaving Hermann there, but he instead wads up a piece of paper and chucks it in Hermann's direction. It bounces off Hermann's shoulder, and Hermann jolts awake just in time to catch the glasses that have slid the rest of the way off his nose.

From the doorway, Newt gives a mocking salute and flicks off the lights on his side of the lab before disappearing down the hall.

Mumbling something about inconsiderate biologists, Hermann stretches out his leg, which has stiffened during his brief lapse into sleep. There is no point in continuing his work tonight, so he makes a note of the last change he made to the model and shuts down his computer.

The walk to his quarters is brief, and his bed is welcome. That night he dreams about Newt throwing bits of Kaiju at him, and he wakes in darkness to mistake the shadows by his bed to be Newt crouched by his side.

III.

In September there is a lull in activity in the Hong Kong shatterdome. The west coast of North America has been taking a beating, but no Kaiju have made landfall on this side of the Pacific in six weeks. With no samples brought in from their last Kaiju - Shaolin Rogue had torn the category three to shreds, much of the carnage sinking to the bottom of the ocean by the time the ships arrived to scavenge the pieces - Newt is especially at a loss of things to do.

So when Newt fails to make an appearance in the lab for two days, Hermann doesn't take any special note of his absence. Given the lack of fresh Kaiju samples, slow progress of his work was to be expected. But when the third and then fourth day passes without a sighting of Newt, not even at meals, Hermann notices. Even without work to do, Newt would normally be inclined to stop by at least briefly to ruffle Hermann's feathers before sweeping off like a whirlwind of to some other part of the Shatterdome. The silence of his absence has become loud.

At 11:45 Hermann descends from the monstrous blackboard, sets down his chalk, and picks up his cane. Instead of heading to the mess hall for lunch, he goes to Newt's quarters, not far from the lab, and knocks. When there is no response he tries the large, metal door, and finds it moveable; Newt hasn't bothered to lock it. Without invitation, Hermann enters the dark room and pulls the door shut behind him.

His hand fumbles along the wall in the blackness before he manages to flip on one of the light switches, which sends one half of the fluorescent lighting strip above flickering to life. Newt's quarters are a mess. Clothes lie in various piles on the floor; books and computer printouts coat most of the horizontal surfaces in the room; and various kaiju memorabilia decorate what space is left.

On the bed Newt lies silently, a pillow over his head, his limbs splayed out, sticking haphazardly out of the mangled sheets.

"Good morning, Newton," Hermann says, his voice crisp and formal. Newt doesn't respond.

Hermann picks his way across the room to the bathroom. White capped orange pill bottles line the top of the sink, and Hermann bends at the waist to peer with familiarity at the labels. Reaching for a particular bottle, he knocks two of the small, peach colored tablets into his hand. A glass sits on the edge of the sink, and he fills it before walking with the pills back into the bedroom.

He places the pills and water on the table beside Newt's bed. A beat passes by, and he draws himself up before saying,

"It's been much too quiet without you, Newton; I can hardly concentrate." Another beat, and he cautiously places a firm hand on Newt's shoulder, the thin sheet an insulator between their skin, "I will see you in the lab."

Withdrawing his hand, Hermann retreats, turns off the fluorescent light, and shuts the door behind him.

Newt does not appear for the rest of the day, but the following morning, he is already in the lab when Hermann arrives. Muttering excitedly, he is engrossed in making meticulous comparisons between old and more recent samples.

They exchange greetings casually, and the previous day is not mentioned. The weight of a hand on a shoulder hovers between them.


	2. Chapter 2

IV.

Three days ago the breach was closed, and Mako and Raleigh emerged from the ocean to herald the end of an era. For three days, the shatterdome has both celebrated the victory and mourned the loss of those who gave their lives in the final Kaiju assault. The war clock, reset to zero for the last time, no longer counts the seconds of humanity's greatest war - the only war where the enemy was not themselves.

The shatterdome is strange in its quietude. The tension that buzzed through the air like electricity has dissipated, and the nervous anticipation of waiting for the next attack no longer propels them headlong into the future. There are things to be done, but there is no rush; for the first time in twelve years, there is space and time to breathe.

Three days ago Hermann drifted with Newton Geiszler, and for three days Hermann has been plagued with the strange side effects (whether normal consequences of drifting or unfortunate by-products of Newt's jerry-rigged Pons, Hermann isn't sure). In the lab he finds himself continually distracted by phantom thoughts that are not his own. The edge of a memory will come to him, or a fact that he had not previously been aware of, and he goes to chase the rabbit, as it were, only to find that the thought was not his to begin with, belonging instead to a certain tattooed biologist. It's distracting at best, embarrassing at worst (he had not wanted to know, for example, that one of the Jaeger techs he passed in the hallway that morning gives incredible blow jobs when drunk).

At night it's worse. Since the drift, Hermann has found sleep to be all but unattainable. In the strange, defenseless time before sleep comes, a twisting sense of emptiness settles in the pit of his stomach. It feels as though some familiar and vital part of him is missing. And though that part of him existed for only thirty seconds at most, he still feels lost without it. In the darkness his mind keeps searching for something that isn't there.

This night is no different from the ones preceding, and when an hour passes without sleep coming any closer, Hermann abandons the attempt. He sits on the edge of his bed in agonized defeat, watching the digital face of the clock at his bedside flicker with the passing minutes. The floor is cold against his feet. For a man who solves complex problems as a profession, solutions to this particular quandary are annoyingly elusive.

With no respite from his sleeplessness in sight, Hermann slips his feet into a pair of slippers and reaches for his cane. He puts on a plaid patterned robe (even though his sleepwear is entirely decent) and he leaves his room for the abandoned shatterdome hallways, trying to walk his way further into exhaustion that will make sleep easier to come by. At this odd hour of the night he passes no one else in the hall, so the embarrassment is lessened when he realizes that his feet have led him to the door of his lab mate's quarters.

He pauses in the hallway and huffs in exasperation, but he quickly gives in to the inevitability of the situation and raps three times on the metal doorframe. Newt opens the door so quickly that Hermann wonders if Newt had been expecting someone.

There is no surprise on Newt's face when he sees that it is Hermann standing outside his door.

"So you couldn't sleep either, huh?" Newt yawns.

"Regrettably, no," Hermann says, then adding in the way of an explanation that wasn't asked for, "I was curious to see if you were suffering the same. I've never heard of the drift affecting the jaeger pilots this way."

Newt rubs his hands against his face as he steps aside to let Hermann in, "Yeah, well, their neural relay was never propagated by a Pons hobbled together with parts from the shatterdome's junk bin."

The light in the room is dim: Newt has a desk lamp switched on in lieu of the fluorescent overheads. The flexible neck is twisted so that the lamp's spotlight burns a yellow ellipse onto the concrete wall behind it. Newt looks as fatigued as Hermann feels: his eyes are red, his hair disheveled (more so than normal), and Hermann is almost positive the Newt's white t-shirt is on backwards.

"How long is this going to last?" Hermann asks, his exhaustion tinging his tone.

Newt shrugs, "I don't know, man, but for now I guess we've just gotta try to manage it."

Just as Hermann is about to ask how they are to do that, Newt, without any preamble, gets into his bed, pushes down the sheets on the other side, and says,

"Come on, Hermann, get in."

Hermann looks properly horrified and sputters wordlessly while searching for a response to such an absurd suggestion.

Newt rolls his eyes so far back into his head it looks like he's trying to examine his own frontal lobe.

"Jesus christ, dude, you're the one that came knocking at my door in the middle of the night, not me. Listen, I'm not trying to jump your stuffy grandpa bones here. I can't sleep. _You_ can't sleep. And I'm pretty sure we both know that if you don't get into this goddamned bed, tomorrow is going to be an absolute nightmare for both of us."

And although Hermann had recoiled from the idea instinctively, he knows, logically, that Newt's suggestion is not completely unfounded. Being in close proximity to the mind that his subconscious feels it has lost from the drift may allow them both to settle into sleep.

"Do try to stay on one side of the bed, Newton," Hermann sniffs.

"Want me to get the masking tape?" Newt grins, and a memory of Hermann on his knees, demarking a line of separation between them on the lab floor, flashes in Hermann's mind.

Without deigning Newt with a response, Hermann sheds his slippers and robe like extra skin and, with as much dignity as he can muster, slides into bed next to Newt. He leans his cane against the wall next to him, and Newt flicks off the lamp from the other side of the bed.

They lie in awkward silence, Hermann on his back and Newt on his side facing away from Hermann. The close physical proximity is strange – Hermann can't remember the last time he's shared a bed with another person – but he finds that, for the first time in three days, his mind is quiet, and the emptiness in the pit of his stomach does not gnaw at him. The odd sleeping arrangements are a small price to pay for the calming of his mind and a gateway into sleep.

Beside him, Newt is breathing evenly, and Hermann latches onto the metronomic sound of his exhalations. He closes his eyes, matching his breathing with Newt's. They descend into sleep in tandem, the lingering connection of the drift made stronger with their closeness. Each breath, each beat of their hearts line up as they fall, finally, into much needed sleep.

V.

In five days Hermann and Newt will be walking out of the shatterdome for the last time. The facility is being shut down, maintained by only a handful of essential workers. In the future, it may be used again as a military base or training facility, but it will never again be fully revived to its glory days. Most of the lab is packed up, paperwork filed away in boxes and Kaiju specimens frozen or suspended in glass enclosures waiting to be transported to various bio labs around the globe for continued study.

There hasn't been anything substantial to do for days. The breach is sealed; their job is done. Now it's just filling out report after report and making sure everything is in order as the PPDC prepares to shut its doors forever. The dull days roll into quieter nights.

In the darkness of his quarters, Hermann finds once again that he cannot sleep.

He is lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, when the door to his room opens and closes silently. The light from the hall briefly cuts a thin band of luminescence into the room, and Hermann sees Newt outlined in the light. Without a word of introduction, because by now he doesn't need one, Newt climbs into bed with Hermann, who has moved over to make room.

At first it had just been about being able to sleep at night, combating the strange side effects of the drift. Since that first night in Newt's quarters, they have spent nearly every night sharing a bed: sometimes Newt's, sometimes Hermann's. They don't talk about it, just silently make room for one another on the mattress. The invisible line is still there, and both keep to their own side of the bed even though the space is small and cramped. Hermann insists on it because this defined separateness is the only thing that makes this arrangement acceptable in his mind, and Newt complies because Hermann insists.

The sleeplessness brought on by the drift has long since faded, yet they still find themselves making the nighttime walk to each other's quarters. The phantom loss of the drift has been replaced with loss of another kind: their way of life for the past ten years is ending; their research, which had been their lives, is done, suddenly unneeded. They are both, privately, silently, learning to cope with the slow return of normal life.

Tonight, with their departures so imminent, grief sinks deeper in their chests.

Next to Hermann, Newt is unusually tense, clenching his hands against the mattress and twisting his fingers into the sheets. So close to him in the small bed, Hermann can feel the distress consuming Newt in overwhelming waves. Something choked emerges from the back of Newt's throat.

Hermann turns his head to look at him: Newt's face is contorted with emotion, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips trembling. Normally, Hermann would be inclined to simply turn away, to remain silent in a pantomime of granting privacy rather than attempting to navigate the emotions of others. But in the darkness, in this shared space and at this time, when they are both vulnerable and hurting, he finds a voice.

". . . Newton?" Hermann ventures, the name intoned with concern.

Newt doesn't respond at first. His thoughts gather like storm clouds in the room, coalescing around them. Without turning his head to look at Hermann, Newt lets out a shuddering breath and begins to speak.

"The Kaiju were my life, Hermann," he says; his voice is strained and tight in trying to hold back the flood of his emotions. "I don't know what to do now that they're gone. They were everything to me . . . When I first saw Trespasser on K-Day, it was like - it was like I found myself."

Then the levees break, and it all comes spilling out, Newt's words punctuated with choked gasps and watery sniffles.

"I had nothing before that. Six doctorates and nothing to live for . . . They _saved_ me. And now they're gone. I mean, yeah, we saved the world, but - but it's . . . I ended up destroyed the only thing that ever really _mattered_."

There is so much more that Newt doesn't say - that he can't say because he doesn't know how to.

"I've spent ten years of my life studying them, learning to understand them. And - and I've drifted with them - I _do_ understand them. And now they're just _gone_."

Before now, Hermann has never stopped to think that Newt would be mourning the loss of the Kaiju. For Newt, the closing of the breach was much more than the neutralizing of a threat. It was the sealing off of a portion of the world that had made life worth living. And while the whole shatterdome has mourned for Pentecost and Chuck, the Kaidonovskys and the Wei siblings, Newt has been alone in bearing the pain of the Kaiju.

Newt untangles his hands from the sheets and covers his face with them. He sucks in a breath of air from between his fingers and holds it, his throat constricting painfully before a sob pushes its way through his lips.

"Shit, Hermann, I'm sorry."

Words line up on the edge of Hermann's tongue: 'There's no need to apologize,' 'It's going to be okay,' 'You will find other things to live for'. But he can't bring himself to say any of them. They feel misshapen and out of place when his lips try to form the syllables. Instead, he reaches across the line that defines their relationship and places a hand, slowly, cautiously, on Newt's arm. Newt goes quiet, and Hermann squeezes his arm gently. A memory stirs.

Newt swallows hard and wipes at his eyes. Slowly, he turns on his side, moves closer to Hermann so that his chest is pressed against Hermann's arm, his knees bumping against Hermann's thigh. His movements are cautious, questioning, slow enough to allow Hermann to stop him before his actions become too intrusive. They are both unsure if this is acceptable - if this is the kind of thing that their relationship allows. But Hermann doesn't stop him, and Newt curls himself against the line of Hermann's body, his face pressed into Hermann's shoulder, one hand resting against Hermann's chest. Newt is shaking, and Hermann wraps his arms around him to still him.

Hermann has little to offer in ways of comfort. He doesn't run his hand calmingly along Newt's back or card his fingers soothingly through Newt's hair. He doesn't whisper reassuring words against his skin or lace his fingers with the ones curled against his chest. He simply holds him, and even this is more than Hermann would have ever thought he was capable of offering. But it seems enough. He holds Newt until Newt stops shaking, until the trickle of moisture on his shoulder runs dry and Newt's stuttering breathing becomes slow and even, until Newt falls into dreamless sleep.

For Hermann, this is new: to be an anchor for someone, to be a source of comfort in a time of grief. And yet it does not feel awkward or forced. Newt fits in his arms as natural as chalk in his fingers. The feeling of impending loss once again twists deep in Hermann's chest as he desperately tries not to name the warmth that blossoms where his skin touches Newt's. Twelve years is a long time to know someone, but to arrive at the culmination of all those years with only five days left to live it: life is sometimes unforgivably cruel.

Hermann falls asleep with Newt still curled in his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

In less than twenty-four hours, all non-essential workers are scheduled to depart from the shatterdome. Funny, Hermann thinks, that that's what he and Newt are considered now: non-essential. But even in his indignation he realizes that most people had begun to think of them that way once the PPDC began cutting funding. With everyone besides, perhaps, Pentecost, they had only ever been humored, never taken completely seriously. Only in the final hours of the Kaiju assault did they became important, essential to humanity's survival. Now they, along with the rest of the PPDC, stutter along with their lack of purpose.

2:00 AM. Hermann, fully dressed, sits quietly in his quarters. He hasn't slept and hasn't tried to. Rather than wasting idly these last few hours in sleep, he has been fixating his final impressions of the shatterdome in his mind: the great magnitude of the concrete and steel structure, the vivacity of the life moving within it. He wants to inscribe the sights and sounds of the place in the folds of his cerebral cortex so that later he can turn them over like mementos in his mind.

When he becomes restless in his room, he walks to the k-science lab in the dead lull of the night to ponder those walls instead. It is dark, and when he switches on the lights, the bareness of the space bothers him. All of the specimen tanks are gone; there are no papers or instruments lying on the work tables or desks; the whole lab has been deep-cleaned. Someone has even taken the time to peel off the black and yellow tape sectioning off the two sides of the lab. He feels like a stranger in a place that is no longer his.

By some oversight, the monstrous blackboards on what was his side of the lab remain, pushed back against the far wall. There are still equations written on them, snapshots in time. He approaches them and finds his lips tightening in a straight, hard line.

He is rarely one to be dramatic, but it feels right, to stand there in the empty lab, looking up at his work, surveying the numbers inscribed in chalk before him. He reaches out and touches the blackboard.

The smooth, black surface is cool against his fingers. He closes his eyes and feels every molecule in him vibrating, the intensity threatening to tear him apart. Anger rises in him, sudden and hot. His muscles tense, and he swipes his hand in a large arc across the board, smearing the chalked equations beneath his palm. With an angry cry he balls his hand into a fist and pounds it, once, twice, sharp against the board.

Hermann hears footsteps behind him.

His limbs turn to stone with his arm raised in a defiant fist pressed against the blackboard. There is only one other person who would be here at this time of night. Newt stands behind him in the doorway to the lab and does not say anything.

They stay like this for a long time. The whooshing of the blood in their ears is the only sound they hear.

Slowly, Hermann lowers his arm but does not turn around.

"I've never wanted so badly _not_ to leave a place before, Newton." The words are filled with anger and accusations.

"I know," Newt says.

"I didn't realize it would feel like this."

"I know."

Hermann's voice drops to a whisper.

"I don't want to leave you."

Newt comes up behind Hermann to wrap his arms around Hermann's waist and to rest his forehead on Hermann's shoulder. Hermann lets him and feels a calmness radiating from the points of contact.

"I don't want to leave you either, man," Newt says, then pauses.

"Listen, Hermann, in twelve hours, you'll be on a plane heading to England, and I'll be sitting in an airport waiting for my flight back to the US. I don't want to leave without at least trying to ask . . . You can turn around and punch me right in the face if you want, I totally get it, but I've – I've thought about this a lot; it isn't something I just woke up thinking about today, you know, and – "

"Newton."

"Let me blow you, Hermann?"

Of the thousand things that could have come from Newt's mouth, the forwardness of the request unbalances Hermann's thoughts.

_In twelve hours, he will be on a flight back to England. Right now he is standing in an empty, stripped lab that no longer feels like his. He thinks of the warmth that had blossomed where his skin touched Newt's as Newt curled against his body. In twelve hours, he will be on a flight back to England. After this, he will likely never see Newt outside of conferences that will probably never again have content that overlaps their respective research areas. He thinks of the loss that twisted deep in his chest when he realized that he may have begun to feel affection for Newt. In twelve hours, he will be on a flight back to England._

When Hermann doesn't respond, Newt unhooks his arms from around Hermann's waist and begins to pull away, "Never mind, forget it, it was a stupid of me to suggest. . ." But Hermann grabs one of Newt's hands and doesn't let go.

"Newt." Hermann's voice is unsteady.

The use of his truncated name stops Newt more than the grip on his hand. Newt waits, watching the back of Hermann's head as Hermann nods, first slowly, and then again quickly, emphatically. Hermann lets go of Newt's hand.

"Wait – _really_?" Newt's eyes are wide with disbelief.

"Yes. Yes, really." Hermann's voice is stronger now.

"My room or yours?"

Hermann's afraid that the walk down the shatterdome hallways will make him reconsider. He turns to face Newt, and the blackboard, the last remaining evidence of his work here, looms tall behind him.

"No one is going to be wandering in here this late at night."

Newt's pulse quickens, "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

Both are feeling lightheaded, their breath coming faster.

Newt pulls at the bottom of Hermann's sweater vest and shirt, untucking the shirt enough so that he can slide his hand against the flat of Hermann's stomach. Lean muscles twitch beneath his fingers. Lower, Newt feels the sparse hair growing beneath Hermann's navel. Hermann's breath hitches when Newt moves over Hermann's loose-fitting pants to cup him gently through the fabric. Hermann's eyes are strangely unfocused.

"You okay?" Newt asks.

Hermann's throat clicks with a dry swallow before he says, "Yes."

He swells in response to Newt's touch, agile fingers rubbing him slowly. Every now and then Newt pauses briefly to stroke his head through the fabric with his thumb. Already wetness is seeping into the front of Hermann's boxers.

One of Hermann's hands clutches at his cane; the other is balled into a fist at his side. He opens and closes it as Newt gets on his knees in front of him and undoes his flies. Hermann's jaw is slack, and he blinks rapidly down at Newt.

Newt is taking deep breaths, his pupils blown wide. "I've wanted to do this for a while," he admits.

"Oh," is all Hermann can think of to say, his brain sufficiently addled.

"Do you want me to stop?"

Hermann closes his eyes. "No."

Never has he seen Newt be so cautious. Perhaps he thinks that Hermann will startle, like some skittish animal, if he goes too fast. Hermann wants to tell him he's going much too slow.

Newt's fingers worm their way through the two concentric slips of Hermann's pants and boxers, and suddenly Hermann is feeling skin against skin as Newt pulls him into open air. Newt's breath puffs against him as Newt wrings Hermann slowly from root to tip. A stream of pre-cum beads and trickles over his hand.

"Holy shit, dude," Newt murmurs, feeling the liquid ooze between his palm and Hermann's skin. Hermann Gottlieb is a leaker.

"Newton," Hermann chokes, the two syllables forming an urgent request that makes Newt's pulse jump.

Newt leans forward and takes Hermann in his mouth, and as his lips close around him, Hermann's hand shoots forward to grip Newt's shoulder to steady himself.

"_My God_," he breathes.

It may not be the neatest blowjob, and finesse is certainly lacking, but if Hermann's ragged breathing is anything to go by, Hermann doesn't seem to mind. It has been a long time since Hermann has felt the touch of anything other than his own hand, and the sight and sensation of Newt swallowing him down eagerly is overwhelming.

Newt is working his own hardness through his tight jeans, his other hand gripping Hermann's base when he takes a few seconds to breathe. _Put your hand on my head_, Newt thinks desperately, _Please, put your hand on my head_. He thinks about moving Hermann's hand there himself, to feel his fingers curling in his hair, but it is too late.

There is urgency, a warning tone to Hermann's cries as he chokes out,

"_Newton, Newt, I – _"

And then Hermann's body seizes up, every muscle tensing, and Newt, who has replaced his mouth with his hand, is jerking Hermann in fast, long strokes as Hermann comes. For a moment, Hermann loses his sense of who and where he is as blood rushes in his ears and his vision tunnels. If Newt had not been there to steady him, he would have tumbled to the ground, and when he regains himself, he has to slowly lower himself to the lab floor with as much dignity as he can (which is not much, as his legs feel like jelly and he is still exposed to the open air).

Newt, breathing hard with his eyes closed, sits on his haunches next to him. A dark, telling stain seeps through the fabric of Newt's jeans. Hermann rests his forehead against Newt's shoulder and says,

"I would return the favor, but it seems it's unnecessary . . ."

Newt huffs a small breath of air out of his nose.

"Next time," he says.

Hermann wonders when there will ever be a 'next time'.

They go to Newt's room because it is closer. Among the sheets, they tangle their limbs together, Hermann in his undershirt and boxers and Newt in a clean pair of underwear and a graphic tee that reads "Kaiju King" in large, block letters.

In less than twelve hours, Hermann will be on a flight back to England.

In soft voices, they try to tell each other that this won't be the end of things between them. They will find joint positions at some university somewhere; they are both the foremost researchers in their fields right now: it won't be hard. They could travel together as guest lecturers, explaining the twin wonders of the breach and the Kaiju. They can make this work.

Hermann holds Newt close and breathes him in like the musky scent will slow the march of time.

They can make this work.

Newt falls asleep with Hermann's fingers carding through his hair and dreams of Kaiju emerging from the sea.

They can make this work.


End file.
